Putting the boot in

Alerted by Sue Foll on blip to the exhibition of Peter Kennard's sharp political illustration of all the issues I've cared about over the last half century, I headed off to the Whitechapel Gallery this morning. I thought I remembered his acerbic montages from Time Out when it was still a radical, anti-capitalist magazine, and was surprised to see none from them but a few that had been published by the Guardian.

Being reminded of all those campaigns made me wistful about where we haven't progressed, but the 'Protect and Survive' images were as ludicrously entertaining now as they were then. 'Protect and Survive' was a British government public information campaign between 1974 and 1980, intended to advise the public on how to protect ourselves during a nuclear attack. Some of my generation had already had the pre-cursor in school in 1969, so we were well primed. I feel sorry for our teacher who never got us beyond the page headed 'Where to take shelter'. Below that was: '1 under the stairs', which made us exchange glances then '2 in a ditch' which had us in uncontrollable giggles. Well, we were 14.

Anyway, 'Protect and Survive' was little better, suggesting that families should decide on which room in their house was the 'fall-out' room, should strengthen its walls and ceilings (really, in an impending nuclear attack?), block up vents, whitewash windows, build an inner refuge within the room and stock it with enough food and water for 14 days. The government was intending to distribute the pamphlet free to all homes only in the event of 'grave international crisis', but newspaper articles about the campaign generated such intense public interest that it was published for purchase in May 1980.

CND then launched a 'ProteSt and Survive' campaign and some of Peter Kennard's excellent artwork for that was on display.

As I came out of the Whitechapel Gallery, I was bemused to see walking towards me two lovely Oxford XR people, originally from India and returning home in a fortnight, whose farewell in Oxford I couldn't get to last week. Our stupefaction quickly turned to hugs and I alerted them to the Peter Kennard exhibition while they alerted me to the anarchist bookfair next door.

Where it belatedly dawned on me that I was on Whisky Foxtrot territory... Was she around? She was near enough for a happy reunion about half an hour later. Brilliant.

Our walk took us into dusk and under these shoes then I went on to the Queen Elizabeth Hall at the South Bank for the concert by the Manchester Collective that was the trigger for my coming to London this weekend. Over many years I have tried and failed to appreciate contemporary 'classical' music and I'm finally starting to get it. I've listened to recordings of the Manchester Collective because Abel Selaocoe, a cellist I love, plays with them sometimes. This evening's programme, like the Oxford Chamber Music Festival which has has been part of my enlightenment, put pieces of music together so that they enhanced each other.

For my record:
Bacewicz, 'Concerto for String Orchestra'
Laurence Osborn, 'Schiller's Piano' - an extraordinary piece inspired by the discovery that the replica of Schiller's piano, built at Buchenwald by WW2 prisoners (why?), was unable to play music; it includes recorded sounds of piano-making. Played by ‘cyborg pianist’, Zubin Kanga, who also did a set in the QEH's entrance hall after the concert.
Tchaikovsky, parts of the well-known 'Serenade for Strings'
Carline Shaw, parts of 'Evergreen'
Kilar, 'Orawa for String Orchestra' - this really bounced off both the Tchaikovsky and the Bacewicz.

Throughout this concert I wished I could play the violin well. It was nearby, in the Royal Festival Hall with my dad at Ernest Read's Saturday morning concerts for children, but at the other end of my life, that I felt the same thing, but with the optimism and excitement of possibility rather than the knowledge that I didn't have the skill or tenacity.

Sigh. At least I'm still learning how to listen. And still playing my violin, albeit so much worse than 8-year-old me hoped.